


Cues

by plain_jane08 (awolfling)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 05:07:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/427200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awolfling/pseuds/plain_jane08
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gives subconscious physical cues relating to his well-being. John picks up on them and acts accordingly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cues

Sherlock, John found, gave unconscious physical clues about his wellbeing. At first John had thought it was a childish bid for attention, but he soon realised that Sherlock had no idea he was doing it (and wasn’t that a surprise!) Sherlock barely registered his own physical constraints at all. He could ignore hunger and sleep; it made sense that he ignored sickness or injury. In fact, John had once seen Sherlock take a bullet to the leg (just a shallow wound, the bullet clipping the outside of his thigh) and after stumbling a bit, keep on running. He’d collapsed afterwards, to be fair, as the adrenalin had worn off and three days without sleep caught up with him, but he’d caught the suspect, even running with a fast bleeding wound.  
  
Sherlock, John discovered, was prone to ear infections. John had first noticed early on when Sherlock was processing the clues of a case, pacing around the flat talking himself through it. Every now and then, Sherlock would touch his right ear, a gesture John had never seen him make before. Sometimes he would fiddle with the lobe, others he would stick the tip of his index in his ear and gently wobble it and every now and then he would cup his hand over his ear.   
  
John was reminded of a few babies and toddlers he’d treated with ear infections, how their hands would often go to their ears even when they were incapable or unable to articulate the problem.  
  
“What’s wrong with your ear?” John had asked.  
  
Sherlock had frowned, stopped mid sentence with a puzzled look.   
  
“My ear is sore,” Sherlock as said, tone rising as if he’d only just discovered it himself.  
  
John had fetched his doctor’s kit, Sherlock scoffing at the waste of time, but still acquiescing to John. After checking Sherlock’s ears it was clear there was an infection. John put Sherlock on a course of antibiotics and gave him painkillers that would also reduce inflammation. John had expected Sherlock to put up a fight at this, but instead he followed John’s instructions and when there was some relief from the pain Sherlock gave John a small smile. Sherlock solved the case quickly after that and John liked to think he’d helped by helping Sherlock.  
  
Whenever Sherlock had an ear infection after that (which was almost every time he had a cold) John could tell by the way Sherlock played with his ears and John would silently fetch his kit.  
  
It was in between cases when Sherlock caught a stomach bug that had been making its way around London. It was the change in mannerisms that alerted John to a problem, although honestly the vomiting and diarrhoea that followed would have been more than obvious indicators. Still, it was Sherlock’s hands cradling his stomach that prompted John to ask if something was wrong. The protective gesture, strangely, reminded John of the way pregnant women sometimes held their bellies.  
  
The stomach bug hit Sherlock hard, with a high temperature that had him bedridden for days. John stayed by Sherlock’s side during that time, took a few days off work so he could be at home. He gently coaxed Sherlock into drinking water, a bucket ready next to the bed in case he vomited it back up, which had happened a few times. Finally Sherlock kept enough water down that he could take something for the nausea and when that kicked in John gave him aspirin to lower the temperature.   
  
John bathed Sherlock’s face and neck with a cool, damp cloth as Sherlock slept in fits and starts, sometimes babbling about fever dreams and sometimes just gazing at John with an expression John could only describe as dazed fondness.   
  
John watched over Sherlock day and night, Sherlock’s bad eating and sleeping habits had compromised his immune system, John was sure, and John wasn’t going to take any chances. So he sat on a chair next to Sherlock’s bed, reading a book and sometimes sleeping, leaving only to go to the loo or eat something.  
  
Sherlock’s fever broke for good two days later and while Sherlock was still as weak as a new born kitten, he was on the mend. John managed to get Sherlock to eat a light meal, bland foods only so as not to upset his stomach again, and a few small sips of an isotonic drink. Although still too pale, Sherlock looked much better after eating.  
  
Sherlock insisted on having a bath then and John could not dissuade him. In the interests of making sure Sherlock didn’t accidentally drown himself or, indeed, fall over on his way to the bathroom, John helped him.   
  
Sherlock sat on the closed lid of the toilet while John ran a shallow bath. Sherlock’s eyes were already drooping by the time the bath was run and John realised he was going to have to do a lot more than just keep an eye on Sherlock.  
  
John helped Sherlock undress, his worn t-shirt first, Sherlock lifting his arms to help. John tossed the shirt to the floor; he’d pick it up and put it in the laundry basket later. Then John had Sherlock stand up and helped him out of his pyjama bottoms and underpants. Sherlock held onto John’s shoulders with both hands, terribly unsteady as he lifted one foot and then the other so that John could slip his bottoms and pants off.   
  
John helped Sherlock into the bath, whose sleepiness had turned him into a human rag doll. Sherlock rested against the back of the tub, head lolling forward. John soaped up a cloth and began washing Sherlock starting with his arms. Sherlock lifted them so John could wash his armpits and then let them fall limply back down. John ran the cloth over Sherlock’s chest and stomach and then skipped over to Sherlock’s legs. When all that was left was Sherlock’s genitals John tried to hand the cloth to Sherlock.  
  
“You can clean your own groin,” John said, holding the cloth out.  
  
Sherlock blinked at him, “’S fine, you can do it.”  
  
“Sherlock,” John sighed, knowing he wouldn’t win on this one.  
  
John could have just left it at that, just helped Sherlock out of the bath and back into bed. Perhaps he should have done, but there was something about Sherlock that turned things that were not socially acceptable into normal mundane occurrences.  
  
So John re-soaped the cloth and cleaned Sherlock’s genitals. He did it quickly and efficiently, just like he would himself if cleanliness was the only thing he had in mind. That done he helped Sherlock tip to one side so John could clean his arse, because really, if John was doing this he may as well go the whole hog.  
  
John rinsed Sherlock off and helped him out of the bath. Wrapping a towel around him, John escorted Sherlock back to his bedroom where he dried him off and put him in clean pyjamas. When John finally tucked Sherlock back into bed, Sherlock was barely awake. But as John turned to leave Sherlock whispered something.  
  
“Nice to have you here, John. Nice not to be alone when I’m sick.”  
  
John sat back down on the chair and watched Sherlock sleep.  
  
+  
  
So John learnt to read Sherlock’s cues. Rubbing at his temples meant that Sherlock had a headache, rubbing at the bridge of his nose and onto his eyelids meant that Sherlock had been reading for far too long and his eyes were sore and John generally managed to wrestle him away from whatever he was doing much to Sherlock’s moaning. A slight limp alerted John to a sprained ankle that Sherlock had ignored and an even worse limp when Sherlock had stubbed his toe and lifted a nail, which John dutifully wrapped and had a bit of a giggle about afterwards.  
  
However, there was one cue which, when it happened, had John stumped. John had pinned Sherlock down to watch a movie with him and they sat next to each other on the couch. About half an hour in Sherlock began subtly fidgeting, rearranging his legs, changing his lean from right to left. John assumed he was just bored but in another ten minutes Sherlock was practically squirming, yet his gaze was fixed firmly on the screen, seemingly absorbed in the movie.  
  
John’s first thought was that Sherlock needed the loo but was too engrossed to realise it, but he dismissed the idea almost immediately as it wasn’t behaviour Sherlock had ever exhibited before and the movie wasn’t _that_ exciting. There hadn’t been a case for a while, so it couldn’t be an injury that had gone unnoticed. Intestinal worms? No, couldn’t be, John and Sherlock ate the same food, had done for months.  
  
Out of immediate options, John went for the direct approach.  
  
“What’s wrong?” John asked, pausing the movie.  
  
“Hmm?” Sherlock replied. Far too nonchalant for John’s liking.  
  
“Sherlock,” John’s tone of voice indicating he wouldn’t put up with any nonsense.  
  
“It’s nothing,” Sherlock sounded dismissive.  
  
“If there’s something wrong, you need to tell me.” John turned his body towards Sherlock.  
  
“There’s nothing _wrong_ ” Sherlock shifted uncomfortably.  
  
“Come on, something’s up. I’m a doctor Sherlock, let me help.”  
  
“This isn’t something a _doctor_ can help me with,” Sherlock snapped.  
  
Wait, was Sherlock blushing?  
  
“Look, Sherlock, if it’s something embarrassing-”  
  
“Oh for-!” Sherlock cut John off, standing up as he did so, “You need to leave this alone, John.”  
  
Sherlock stood with his back to John, his breathing quietly laboured.  
  
They were quiet for a minute, then John got up and stood next to Sherlock, putting a hand on his shoulder.  
  
“Sherlock,” John pleaded.  
  
“Fine,” Sherlock bit out, “If you’re not going to leave this alone.” He paused. “I have an erection.”  
  
It took a few seconds for the information to sink in.  
  
“Oh,” John said, wondering if he should remove his hand from Sherlock’s shoulder, if he was making Sherlock uncomfortable.  
  
Sherlock made the decision for him, swirling away and flopping into one of the armchairs. He sat with his elbows on his thighs, head resting in his hands.  
  
“Well that’s… normal,” John said, still trying to find his footing in the turn the conversation had taken.  
  
“Not for me,” Sherlock grumbled.  
  
“It’s not?” John wondered if he should be concerned about that, as a doctor.  
  
“No. Very few things in life hold my interest. The same goes for sexual interest,” Sherlock said sharply.  
  
“Okay,” John said, digesting that. John wondered if he would regret the next question. “When was the last time someone held your interest, then?”  
  
With the silence that followed, John feared he’d over stepped the boundary by a long shot. They’d never talked about stuff like this before, except for Sherlock’s brush off when they’d first met. ‘Married to his work’ indeed. John had begun wondering whether he should sit back down and continue watching the movie when Sherlock spoke again.  
  
“Fifteen years, give or take,” Sherlock said, his voice carefully neutral.   
  
“Fifteen?” John was unable to hide his surprise. “And you haven’t had an erection since?”  
  
Sherlock huffed. “Of course I have. Just nothing this, ah, persistent. It usually just goes away on its own. A natural bodily response, which, without stimuli, causes me little trouble. Now I have stimuli.”  
  
“Stimuli?” John said, looking around waiting for something sexy to jump out at him. Nothing did, it was just the same old flat, filled with what was still mostly Sherlock’s things. John’s gaze landed on the television. The movie? Surely not. The actors weren’t particularly attractive, the female _nor_ the male lead for that matter. And nothing particularly sexual had happened.  
  
“Not the movie, you idiot,” Sherlock interrupted John’s thoughts.  
  
“Then what?” John said, sitting back down the couch, genuinely confused. The movie really was the only new thing in the flat.  
  
“John,” Sherlock said in the rehearsed tone he’d used when he’d given John the line about being married to his work, “I think pursuing this conversation will be detrimental to our friendship.”  
  
“I don’t…” John shook his head, “Sherlock, I meant it when I said it was all fine. I’m not going to stop being your friend because it turns out you’re turned on by mediocre movies or croquet or chocolate croissants or-”  
  
“You?”  
  
John frowned, “Me what?”  
  
“If I was… attracted to you. Would that be fine?” Sherlock’s voice was still that practised calm, but John could hear past it to that faint tremor of uncertainty.  
  
“Yes, that would be fine too. Are you saying you’re attracted to me, or was that just hypothetical?” John didn’t realise he was leaning forward in his seat.  
  
“That was-” Sherlock sighed, as if he found what he was about to say was painful, “a confession. I am, I have become, attracted to you.”  
  
John was silent, mind whirling. John had carefully kept his mind away from seeing Sherlock as a potential partner. If Sherlock’s rebuff that night at Angelo’s hadn’t been enough to dissuade him, acting as Sherlock’s doctor certainly did. For John there were normally very clear lines with these things. Except that when Sherlock was being particularly brilliant or when both of them were high on adrenalin and Sherlock was looking flushed and fucking gorgeous something in John’s brain said _Yes. This._ And John had to work hard to suppress the urge to kiss Sherlock senseless right there and then, and when John was done doing that he had to carefully close up the thoughts in a little box in his mind and try to forget about it.  
  
Sherlock misread John’s silence.  
  
“John, you should know that I have no intention of acting on this. I am used to ignoring this. It won’t be hard for me.”  
  
 _God_ there was something about that statement that John found thoroughly depressing. Sherlock shouldn’t have to deny himself like that. He deserved to be loved.   
  
The realisation hit John with enough force to knock the breath out of him. He was in love with Sherlock. Not just lusting after him, which John could guiltily admit to himself, but actually loved him. John’s second realisation was that John hadn’t really been acting as Sherlock’s doctor at all. He didn’t care about Sherlock’s health because of the Hippocratic Oath. He cared about Sherlock’s health because he cared about Sherlock, not as a friend, but as a lover would.  
  
“Sherlock,” John said, “Do you remember that first night at Angelo’s?”  
  
“You weren’t making a pass at me, I know John,” Sherlock said decisively.  
  
“Well, actually, I kind of was,” John said. John had always been quick to adapt. He loved Sherlock, Sherlock found him attractive, time to make a move.  
  
Sherlock looked up sharply.  
  
“Sherlock, I want to ask you a question and I want you to answer me honestly,” John said, unconsciously licking his lips.  
  
Sherlock nodded slowly.  
  
“May I kiss you?” John asked, hoping he wasn’t being too forward.  
  
Sherlock at once looked uncomfortable and John was about to apologise when he spoke.  
  
“You may,” Sherlock said, sounding reluctant.  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock paused, “Just not with tongue.”  
  
“Okay,” John replied, slipping off the couch and standing in front of Sherlock.  
  
John gently cupped Sherlock’s face in his hand and leant down. He presses his lips to Sherlock chastely. John stroked his thumb along Sherlock’s cheek and Sherlock sighed into him. Their lips moved together slowly. It was the least demanding kiss John had ever had. Sherlock was so demanding in every other aspect, whether on purpose or just because he always shone as bright as a flame and John couldn’t help but be the moth and follow. But this, this kiss, so soft and gentle it was barely there was so different to any part of Sherlock that John had ever experienced.   
  
John was used to kisses that spoke of need and passion. Kisses that said _I want you_. He wasn’t sure what this kiss said. _I’ll care you for_? _I love you_? _Anything you want, you can have it_? Certainly, John _meant_ all those things. But what Sherlock was saying, that was a mystery to John.  
  
John pulled back to look at Sherlock and as he did Sherlock leaned into John’s hand that was still cupping his cheek. Sherlock blinked dopily at John as if the kiss alone had soothed something in Sherlock.  
  
“Just so that we’re clear,” John said, “I want to pursue a relationship with you. If that’s what you want?”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock whispered his answer immediately.  
  
“And I’d really like to do more than kiss you right now, if that’s okay?” John asked.  
  
“Yes, but John, I don’t want intercourse tonight,” Sherlock said flatly, whether to hide defensiveness or uncertainty, John didn’t know.  
  
“That’s fine,” John smiled “As long as I get to touch you.”  
  
Sherlock gave a shy smile.   
  
+  
  
They lay on their sides in John’s bed facing each other, having both undressed themselves. John took his time looking at Sherlock’s body. It was unassumingly beautiful. He was thin and pale and somehow he looked angelic. John had expected too prominent ribs and hip bones given Sherlock’s eating habits but found neither. He wasn’t very muscular, but his shoulders were fairly broad and well-built for his frame. His body looked quietly strong, lean, brimming with kinetic energy.  
  
John reached out and ran his hand along Sherlock’s arm, mapping the edge before curling around his bicep. Sherlock’s breath hitched at this, and John realised that it must have been a very long time since anyone had touched Sherlock in any meaningful way.  
  
John gently nudged Sherlock onto his back and set about a slow exploration of Sherlock’s body. He trailed his hand over Sherlock’s shoulder, clavicle and sternum, ran his fingertips lightly up his neck and smiled when Sherlock shivered. John leaned down and brushed his lips against the other side of Sherlock’s neck, delighted when he shivered again.  
  
John moved his hand down to Sherlock’s chest while he mouthed softly at Sherlock’s neck. As he brushed passed Sherlock’s nipples he felt Sherlock’s pulse instantly speed up against his lips. John rubbed each nipple in turn lightly with his thumb, revelling in the feel of the delicate skin surrounding the little nub.   
  
John was thrilled when Sherlock snaked a hand onto John’s thigh and squeezed, no longer lying limp, but participating. _Yes_ that was much better.  
  
John placed his hand on Sherlock’s stomach. It was surprisingly soft, with a gentle swell that would have been feminine if it weren’t for the smattering of hair around his bellybutton. John snaked his hand over to Sherlock’s hip and folded his fingers around it. His hips were narrow, narrower than John’s own. John let his hand rest there while he pressed kisses down Sherlock’s neck and onto his shoulder.  
  
Sherlock ran his hand up and down John’s thigh, squeezing gently whenever John kissed or touched a particularly sensitive spot.  
  
When John finally moved his hand towards Sherlock’s cock Sherlock tensed.  
  
“Alright?” John asked.  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock hissed, “Touch me.”  
  
John held Sherlock gently, careful not to overwhelm him. Sherlock was hard and thick and slick with pre-come, John’s own cock gave a twitch in response. Sherlock was beautiful here too; cock rosy, flushed, skin so soft and velvety, satisfyingly thick and long, but not over the top, perfectly in proportion to Sherlock’s body. John rolled the foreskin over the flared head and Sherlock began a sensual rock of his hips, tiny little rolls that John was sure was all instinct and no thought.  
  
When Sherlock’s hand gripped John’s thigh tightly and his breath sped up, John was sure Sherlock was close. John firmed up his grip on Sherlock, adding a little twist to the wrist that John himself preferred. In less than a minute Sherlock was coming, body arching in a way John was sure was painful, eyes screwed up and mouth open in a silent ‘oh’ as spasm after spasm thrashed through his body.  
  
Sherlock finally came down, panting, sprawled boneless on the bed, legs twitching every so often. John had taken Sherlock’s hand from his leg and held it in his own, content to lie there and watch Sherlock recover from a most spectacular orgasm.  
  
“You,” Sherlock said hoarsely after some time, “Want you to come.”  
  
“I’m fine, Sherlock. Tonight was about you,” John said, placing a kiss on Sherlock’s shoulder.  
  
“No, us” Sherlock said, grip tightening on John’s hand, “I need this to be about us.”  
  
“Okay,” John said, bringing Sherlock’s hand up to his mouth and kissing the back of it, “Okay.”  
  
Seeing that Sherlock was in no condition to help, John rearranged them so that John sat straddling one of Sherlock’s legs. John wrapped his hand around his cock and began a slow wank, taking in the sight in front of him. Sherlock lay before him, languid, blissed out, more relaxed than John was ever seen him. Head propped up on a pillow, Sherlock watched John through slitted eyes, a lazy smile playing in the corners of his mouth. Come painted his stomach, ropes of white so close in colour to the pale skin of his belly.  
  
John licked his lips. _God_ Sherlock was stunning.  
  
Sherlock brought a hand up to hold John’s hip, resting it there for a while as he watched John, then sliding it back he cupped John’s arse, fingers curling around, pressing in. John’s hips gave a little hitch and he sped up, losing a little finesse as his pleasure built.  
  
“Yes, that’s it,” Sherlock whispered, voice deep, “Come for me John. My John.”  
  
John gasped and came, white light exploding behind closed eyelids as his cock pulsed, his come joining Sherlock’s on Sherlock’s stomach.  
  
When John had regained his equilibrium he cleaned Sherlock off and lay down next to him, resting his head on Sherlock’s shoulder and his arm around Sherlock’s waist. John hummed contentedly as his body relaxed against Sherlock’s.  
  
“So,” John said, “Just so that I know, no kissing with tongues ever?”  
  
“I don’t particularly enjoy it, but if it means a lot to you, I won’t say no. So long as you haven’t recently eaten. I can’t stand tasting food on another person.” Sherlock’s disgust bled through in the last sentence.  
  
“Alright, I’ll keep that in mind,” John said good naturedly  
  
“John, I feel I should warn you that my libido isn’t very reliable. There may be long periods of time when I have no interest in sex,” Sherlock said, fidgeting.  
  
“Alright,” John said, snuggling into Sherlock.  
  
“That won’t be a problem?” Sherlock asked tentatively.  
  
“No. We’ll have sex when we’re both interested and if I’m interested and you’re not, just tell me to piss off and I’ll go have a wank,” John smiled into Sherlock’s shoulder.  
  
“Alright,” Sherlock said, sounding happier, “Although maybe just saying ‘not now, John’ will suffice.”  
  
They both giggled at that.  
  
+  
  
True to his word, there were times when Sherlock had no interest in sex and that was fine with John. More than fine, actually, because surprisingly Sherlock was always up for a good cuddle when he wasn’t on a case and that was more than enough for John.  
  
And sometimes Sherlock himself initiated sex and in John’s book, those times were equally as wonderful.   
  
Sherlock never stopped giving those physical cues, although he did become a bit better at looking after himself, for John’s sake.


End file.
